Outwardly, I’m an average-looking girl, sprightly at times, but mostly quiet. I blend into crowds rather nicely, and can weave myself into conversations that would make Emily Post proud. But venture inside my head and you’ll find a wicked brew of demon tales and vampire trysts, churning with desperation for a blank page to be unleashed.

Having grown up with a perfectly normal childhood, there was nothing to predispose me to my nefarious fantasies of unworldly beings. I played sports in school, got good grades, had a tight entourage of friends. My parents were supportive and tolerant; both artists themselves who encouraged individuality. Mine was the perfect environment for supernatural creativity, and yet, I chose to keep it tucked away, deep within the recesses of silent reverie. I quietly devoured gothic poems, short stories and novels by writers like Mary Shelley and Edgar Allan Poe. About the age of seventeen, I finally tapped into the dark cellar of my mind and wrote down a ghostly short story with a little inspiration after having watched The Crow for the first time. I was captivated by the dark and ominous essence of the movie; and how cool being paranormal could be.

I believe the world is split into 2 classes: those who are willing to give in to the implausible, and those who are not. On one side of the looking glass, exists a class of fanatics who are perfectly comfortable getting lost in fantasy realms of fictitious characters and hope that somewhere in the world, an Edward Cullen awaits them; on the other side is a separate class that thinks the first class is crazy. The latter is comprised of those who read the newspaper every Sunday, indulge in self-help books, keep a balanced checkbook and a meticulous house. I fall into the former category.

But thanks to authors like J.K. Rowling and Stephenie Meyer, who have brilliantly merged the classes of readers with world-wide bestselling novels, everyone can admit to a little infatuation with fantasy and the paranormal. They’ve transformed characters long deemed pernicious and infused them with hominal qualities worthy of a respectable protagonist. Who could possibly condemn a young man willing to place his immortality on the line for the love of a frail human teenager?

Darkness has a new face that no longer needs to hide away in nightmares and B-rated movies. And those prone to weakness from its beguiling attributes can obsess freely without scrutiny. Dark is the opposite of light, but equally beautiful and seldom understood.

The baleful alter-ego to my prim and proper existence has always been writing. It is my outlet. The balance within that likes to torment my inner Pollyanna by sinking its fangs into her flawless, snow white neck.